I know the money’s not buried anywhere. It would take a lot of work to dig a hole deep enough to hold twenty million dollars, and anyone examining my father’s carefully manicured hands would know he’d never held a shovel a day in his life. Still, it amuses them to look, and it amuses me to see them fail.
I’m feeling slightly better when Doug arrives.
“Ms. Reynolds! Good morning, and welcome to Emerald—.” Doug chokes on his words and his friendly smile stiffens as I stand, gripping his proffered hand before he can pull it away. It’s ten o’clock in the morning and already there are sweat marks beneath the arms of his blue shirt, the buttons straining slightly over his almost-forty paunch.
“Good morning,” I return, smiling brightly.
It takes ten full seconds for Doug to swallow, give my hand a jerky shake, and clear his throat. “You, ah, I—Are you—Is this the correct—”
“Uh-huh. Shall we talk in your office, or is right here okay?” I gesture broadly to the empty waiting area and the all-too-interested receptionist.
“My office,” Doug manages, doing his best to regain control. “This way.”
He turns and strides quickly down a long hall with laminate wood floors. Evenly spaced, average-sized offices line either side, each desk manned by a similarly hunched, Doug-like investor, mostly male. It brings back memories.
I have to move at a near-jog to keep up with Doug, following him into an office at the end of the hall. It’s slightly larger than the others, though just as bland, boasting a view of the coffee shop across the street. He scurries around a large wooden desk like he can hide behind his double computer monitors, and attempts to glare at me, but he’s too afraid to make it convincing.
“Tell me everything you know about Chris Sherwood,” I say.
Doug blinks.
I don’t.
“Huh?”
“Chris Sherwood,” I repeat. “Who is he?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Then find out.” I’m doing my best FBI agent impression now. I’ve had more than my share of real world experience to draw from.
His jaw drops and he shakes his head like he’s trying to wake up from a dream. “What—I—How? Do you have a picture or something?” He appears genuinely bewildered, and I believe him. Now the irritation welling in my gut isn’t aimed at Doug but the second dead-end I’ve encountered in as many days. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“No, I don’t have a picture,” I snap, though the woman at the college had asked me the same thing yesterday. How is it that I’ve been sleeping with Chris for weeks and I don’t have a single picture of him? No proof that he exists, that he’s not a figment of my overactive imagination? I shunt aside the thoughts and focus. “That night at the restaurant,” I begin, breaking off in alarm when Doug covers his face and crumples into his seat like a blow-up doll abruptly deflating.
“Please,” he mumbles through his fingers. “I can’t do this again. My wife—”
Several framed photos sit on the desk, turned away, their velvet backs inviting touch. I reach over to pick one up, the silver frame surprisingly heavy. Inside is a family photo, taken some time ago, if Doug’s more robust hairline is any indication. A smiling family beams at the camera. Doug, his wife, and three identical little girls.
I roll my eyes. I could tell Doug I’m not here to blackmail him—he clearly has some experience—but I don’t bother. Maybe he needs the scare.
“He had your business card,” I say, doing my best to keep a straight face as Doug’s fingers slowly part and he peers out at me like a guilty dog. “At the restaurant. Why would he have your card?”
Doug is incredulous. “Who the hell is ‘he’?” Then he gasps. “Wait—the guy from the restaurant—the one you left with...that’s...that’s Chris Sherwood?”
“I didn’t leave with him.”
“That’s what the server said.”
“Well, the server was—” I cut myself off. I wish I could say with all honesty I hadn’t seen Chris after that night, but unfortunately, I can’t. “That’s not the point. It’s too much of a coincidence for him to have your card, sit at the next table, and not know you.”
“Well, he might know me, but I don’t know him!” Doug protests. “Do you know how many clients I have? I’m very—”
Now I don’t bother to hide my eye roll. “Do a search,” I say, jerking my chin at his computer. “Tell me if he has an account here.”